


Don't Make Me Say It Out Loud

by adventuress_writes



Series: dark academia [1]
Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Confessional Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, is this what our god donna tartt intended???, theo is a whiny bottom, yearning(tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21592588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuress_writes/pseuds/adventuress_writes
Summary: Looking back, I’m surprised that it was I who kissed him first in that moment. I was validated when he immediately kissed me back, softly and ardently. I could taste the mingling of our tears, the champagne and cigarettes on his breath, it was glorious. And at the same time, it all came so natural. Hands grasping, searching, lips exploring, uneven breaths taken between kisses, playing with his hair...Theo and Boris confess their feelings, have sex, and I promise the ending isn't sad :)
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Series: dark academia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878109
Comments: 12
Kudos: 211





	Don't Make Me Say It Out Loud

Sometimes there are periods of complete emotional instability that cause us to rethink our existence. That being said, my life has been fraught with such emotional instability that I’ve had multiple moments such as these. After my mom died and the explosion at the MET. The jarring realization of my father’s death. The week convalescing in a hotel room in Amsterdam. It was these moments that caused such drastic changes in my life and yet coincidentally (or maybe not depending on what you believe in) everything has always led back to Boris.

I’m not sure I’m prepared or qualified to speak on behalf of my compulsory heterosexuality, however it was just this phenomenon that I attribute much of my obsessions over Pippa or the impulse to marry Kitsey. Why this was is beyond me. It could be a multitude of reasons, but that’s besides the point. Killing that part of me was precisely how on one day I wanted to kill myself in that Amsterdam hotel, while on the next I fell asleep in Boris’ arms, comforted by the warmth his skin radiated under those blanched sheets.

The revelations of his actions were what eventually compelled me to tears, my appetite for that Christmas morning breakfast long gone. In that moment of vulnerability, Boris reached out his hands to rub my shoulders comfortingly. Everything had built up in such a way that all those emotions came crashing down on me like a tidal wave hell bent on consuming me. I almost felt like the previous night had been a religious experience and that maybe my life was preserved for some reason unbeknownst to me. Maybe it wasn’t a cruel joke as I had thought. Boris’ touch had brought me to realize the magnitude of the situation we had certainly dodged. And there I was prepared to turn myself into the authorities. I despised Boris when he burst into my hotel room unannounced, but now I was extremely grateful for his presence.

“Boris, I—” I stammered between sobs.

“Shh, Potter, is okay now,” Boris’ voice was husky with concern and emotions of his own, which was what compelled to close the distance between us in a hug. Safe and comforting.

I think it was then, clinging to Boris while sobbing my eyes out, that I realized what he meant to me. I met him at one of the lowests points in my life which had continued I think through to my adulthood, and here he was plucking me delicately out of the absolute lowest point. There was such a tremendous weight off my shoulders, I almost didn’t know what to do with myself or what to say. I knew if I tried opening my mouth to say what I felt, I would almost immediately be met with a fit of speechlessness. It was incomprehensible. Boris had done for me something no one else had; he had gone out of his way to rescue me from a situation that by myself I could not have recovered from. If he didn’t show up that morning, I would’ve been dead, or even worse, alive and willingly apprehended by the authorities. What could he possibly say if I told him this? Nothing, that’s what. So I refrained from divulging my deepest sincerities in the attempt to silence the constant aching feeling that existed when I was with him. As long as I didn’t say anything, my feelings could stay shut up in the imaginary cage I had built for them.

As my sobs died down, I began unlatching myself from the death grip I had on Boris, and yet I could feel in his movements, in his very muscles, that he was reluctant to let me go. His hands lingered on my arms and I obliged him that closeness. If I was being honest with myself, I was getting sick of my own reluctance to allow our gazes and touches to linger. In those moments, I could truly lose myself in Boris’ dark and altogether safe eyes, the visible look of concern painted on his features. There was something he wanted to say, he was clearly hesitating with his lips parted, poised to let slip the unsaid words.

Finally, I broke the deafening silence, “Boris, I think…” and though my sentence trailed off, Boris hung on my words and he inched ever so slightly towards me when I spoke. He wanted me to say it, to finish my thought, to say those unspoken things between us. I knew I couldn’t do it though. As much as I wanted to make things easier for him to speak, I couldn’t find the words nor gather the courage.

Shaking my head of the thoughts swarming my mind and thereby breaking eye contact with Boris, I opened my mouth to speak again, “Listen, Boris, we should probably leave—” I began to stand from my seated position on the floor. “I think it’s—” As I was turning away, Boris reached out and seized my wrist.

“Potter, wait.”

I turned to him expectantly and with a hopeful heart. In fact, my heart was palpitating, my breath was caught in my throat as I waited for Boris to divulge what turbulence was happening in his mind.

“You understand why I did this, yes?”

I knew exactly why, yet I feigned ignorance, “I might have an idea? But no, enlightenment me.”

Boris’ face displayed his conflict as if his thoughts were reenacting history’s greatest battles. I wondered what he would say, theorized how he would start explaining himself.

“Must you make me say it? You know…”

“It’s been on the tip of my tongue since Vegas,” I confessed.

“Why don’t we say these things?”

“We’re afraid.”

Silence hung in the air, deep, substantial silence that began to suck the oxygen from the room.

“ _ Please. _ ” Boris was practically begging me to confess first, “ _ Theo _ .”

I stood blinking, holding his hand, for they had drifted together in the tension of the moment. What could I do? What could I possibly say?

“How fucking hard is it to say ‘I love you?’” In his own frustration, Boris had spoken what we were both hesitant to say. Inadvertently, yet it was made clear. It was as if a veil had been lifted to allow waterfalls of emotions to flow out.

Though I was stunned, I managed to stammer out, “Do you love me Boris?”

It was then when he started crying. He nodded affirmatively as his hand moved to cover his mouth in the attempt to stifle his cries. I was quick to embrace him, perhaps too quick. He allowed his tears to flow freely onto my shirt and though his body was wracked with sobs, he was secure in my grasp.

“I love you too,” I rasped, my voice itself becoming thick with emotion. I honestly couldn’t feel the tears flowing down my own cheeks.

Boris attempted to calm himself to answer my confession, breathing deeply against my chest. He raised his head and wiped his tears away with the side of his hand.

“I know,” he said with hitched laughter.

Looking back, I’m surprised that it was I who kissed him first in that moment. I was validated when he immediately kissed me back, softly and ardently. I could taste the mingling of our tears, the champagne and cigarettes on his breath, it was glorious. And at the same time, it all came so natural. Hands grasping, searching, lips exploring, uneven breaths taken between kisses, playing with his hair. I removed my glasses and tossed them aside, refocusing my attention on Boris’ neck, gently kissing and biting him as he released soft groans from his parted lips, his hand in my hair. I didn’t spare a moment about what I was doing, it was as if my soul had escaped my body and I was functioning only by pure virtue of my muscle memory. Gradually, I realized I had Boris pinned to the bed underneath me. And we were still fully clothed.

Boris pushed against me as he sat up slightly to shrug off his coat while my fingers fumbled hastily with the buttons on his shirt. He didn’t pull off his button-up when I was finished, but he began to undo the belt around his hips that fastened his pants to his lanky frame. At this, I was becoming increasingly more ecstatic to watch these events unfold, to feel his bare skin, to kiss him, to touch him. Those blurry, confusing nights between us when we were teenagers began to play back in my mind; his gentle touch was the same as then and a complete juxtaposition to our roughhousing. He was so careful, so sensual, and yet intensely earnest. I recalled melting in his arms, as again I soon would be, yet it was different than it was in that moment. We hadn’t recognized the complexity of our bond, the depth of our hearts, the intertwining of our souls.

My breath hitched when he pulled the waistband of his underwear under his growing semi. Truth be told, I was inexperienced since I had unfortunately denied myself the pleasure of sleeping with a guy other than Boris and that was years ago. I basically fell to my knees on the hotel room carpet where I’m sure many people before me had done the same in that very spot. My movements were cautious and unsure and I took his dick in my hand gingerly like a schoolgirl. I was too embarrassed to glance up at him, though a sharp breath passed his lips at my touch. He urged me to continue by slipping a hand to the back of my neck and grasping firmly. I could feel my cheeks turning pink as I hesitantly flicked my tongue over the head of his cock, my breath warm against his skin. I had never done this sober and I had immense trouble remembering how.

“Theo,” Boris called sweetly from above, “Stop thinking. Let your body take over. You must—” he moaned mid-sentence as I enveloped the head and sucked softly. “Yes! See, is not so ha—aaahhhh…”

It helped to focus on him—his voice, his scent, the slight twitch of his cock in my mouth. How intoxicating it all was. And he was right, when I stopped thinking and rationalizing it was all abundantly easier, as if my instincts were kicking in. Before long I was doing my best trying to take more of his length down my throat, though I couldn’t help but gag everytime I tried; my eyes were watering so much I was practically crying. At my behest, Boris continued murmuring sweetly to me and though he was devolving into broken Russian I barely understood, it was music to my ears. 

“ _ Smyagchat’sya _ ,” Boris purred in suggestion upon my incessant choking, “ _ Relax. _ ”

Heeding his advice, I allowed my throat to relax as I closed my eyes and steadily took as much of his dick as I could, shocking myself when I felt my nose brush up against his curly dark hair. I glanced up to Boris, searching for his approval. His eyelashes fluttered and he smiled hazily at me, releasing a string of endearing words which I quite appreciated. When I released his dick from my mouth, he craned his head down to meet my lips with his. He moved to stand, taking me up with him. His hands dropped to my trousers, undoing belt, button, and zipper to free my own erection from its fabric prison. He undid a couple of buttons on my shirt, but ultimately left it on while I slid my pants to my ankles and stepped out of them.

“Oh my god, Boris,” I whined as he wrapped a hand around my cock. I shivered and melted at his touch, my knees felt weak.

“Lay on the bed for me?” While he framed it as a question, I interpreted it as a command since I was willingly and completely beholden to his desires. God, did he do such nice things to me.

After he released me from his grasp, I took a seat on the bed looking up at him expectantly. He came to me giggling, pressing his lips to mine and laying me on my back himself. Soon, he pulled his lips back to gaze at me and with a sigh he placed his thumb on my lower lip. I diligently took his thumb into my mouth and sucked sensually. He pulled his thumb from my mouth to replace it with his index and middle fingers and I dutifully did the same, anticipating what was to come. Taking his fingers from my mouth again, he moved his hand down my body to tease my asshole with his wet fingers.

“Yes?” Boris inquired, kissing my neck.

“Yes!” I cried, raising my voice, and yet unphased that someone in the next room might hear me.

Having obtained my consent, Boris pressed on, inserting a finger as I released a shaky breath. He was slow and deliberate, practiced even. Though his fingers felt like heaven, I was desperate for the real thing.

“Please, Boris. _ Please _ .”

I could feel the vibration in Boris’ throat as he chuckled, “So needy, Theo.”

“ _ Please, _ ” I raised my voice, but that was all I could think to say in reply.

Boris smiled and hummed, but otherwise continued what he was doing. He  _ liked _ seeing me like this, whining, pleading, groaning at his touch.

Finally he relented with a shit-eating grin, "Well, if is what you want."

"Goddamn you, Boris!"

He shook his head, tutting with his tongue, "You damn me after I do all these nice things for you? Save your painting, give you part of the reward money, finger-blast you after confessing my love? Hmm…"

His disapproving tone coupled with the motion of his fingers caused my breathing to accelerate. I was beginning to come dangerously close to climaxing.

" _ Boris, please! _ " I was nearly screaming I was so desperate.

"Okay, okay," he giggled, finally pulling his fingers out to replace them with his cock. He was slow at first to feel me out and make sure I could handle it. When he was all the way inside me, he leaned in towards me for a kiss and put a hand on my thigh to keep my legs spread. I was a mess, moaning uncontrollably and clinging to him tightly as he bucked his hips against mine. It was only when a painful groan escaped his parted lips and he slowed his pace to a stop that I regained myself.

I loosened my grip on him and he shot a hand to his opposite shoulder, "Are you alright?"

Boris' breathing was ragged, "Yeah, is nothing."

It was then that I remembered his gunshot wound which summoned me back to the real world from my libidinous trance-like state. I furrowed my brow, decidedly concerned for Boris’ health.

“Boris, seriously.”

“I’m okay. You were just squeezing me to hard is all.” He rubbed his shoulder as if he was a bird nursing his clipped wing.

“If you want to stop, that’s fine.”

Boris seemed perplexed that I would even suggest such a thing, “Do you want to stop?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good,” he smiled, “Then we’ll continue this.”

“Are you sure?”

“See, now you’re teasing me,” he said pouting.

I chuckled as I gently pulled Boris in for a kiss. He continued fucking me, (thank god, I was about to start whining again if I was being honest) slow at first, but he built speed more quickly this time. I didn’t realize how close I was to climax until I started arching my back and I could’ve sworn my pitch raised an entire octave. Boris placed kisses haphazardly along my neck while throwing his full weight behind every thrust until he climaxed in my arms with a satisfied moan. I whined when he stopped, desperate for my own climax, but thankfully he obliged me by jacking me off until I was cumming into his hand and onto my shirt.

It was bliss lying there holding each other. It was almost a momentary glimpse into what domesticity would be like with him—waking up twisted together under the sheets, cooking breakfast, drinking coffee, discussing work, ‘we’re running out of milk, can you pick some up on your way home?’ With Boris I could be truly happy. This was something I could never have with Pippa, and certainly not Kitsey.

“Theo?” Boris asked, resting his head on my chest. I shifted my focus from the ceiling to meet Boris’ eyes and hummed in reply for him to continue. To my surprise, I found him licking the cum off his hand with a devilish smile. When he was finished, he planted a quick kiss on my nose, “I love you.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling uncontrollably, “I love you too.”

The corners of Boris’ lips curled up even further, beaming in delight, it looked like he was nearly moved to tears he was so exuberant, “Hey, we should go to Antwerp. I have a flat there. We could get you a new coat, watch movies—what does the internet say?—netflix and chill?” He chuckled at that. “Maybe buy a bag of pistachios? I feel like having pistachios.”

“Okay, okay, Boris, take me to Antwerp.”

“Really?” His eyes lit up.

“Yes, really.”

“We should probably leave Amsterdam anyway,” he frowned, “Still people are searching for me.”

“Is it still cold outside?”

“Is Christmas Day in Netherlands, what do you think? You can borrow my coat.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ve survived Ukrainian winters, this is nothing.”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief, “Uh huh.”

“What? Is true.”

“Alright, I believe you then, now will you get off me so I can pack my things?”

“Oh, right,” Dramatically, Boris’ eyes darkened slightly as he stood from the bed, as if I had wounded him by asking him to get off of me.

He helped me stand from the bed and I made sure to give him a kiss, “I love you, Boris,” I couldn’t get enough of saying those words.

“I love you, too.” The change in Boris’ expression was swift as he perked back up, excited to throw his clothes on and drive to Antwerp (or more like Gyuri driving us there on account of Boris’ one DUI).

  
As I gathered my few things together in my small suitcase, a phrase kept playing over and over in my head as if it was being spoken by Boris himself and it caused me to grin:  _ ya tebya lyublyu _ .

**Author's Note:**

> okay so like i started writing this in my uni library and ended up finishing it high af. donna tartt, our lord and savior of dark academia, would be proud.


End file.
